


Too Close for Comfort

by Anonymous



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Reader-Insert, hopefully at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Maybe if you were anybody else, you would be a fresh corpse by now.Rated M for the fandom.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to contribute something to the fandom, but I was in the mood to write someting lighthearted. So here it is. I just hope darqx, electricpuke, and gatoafterdark don't mind too much.

It's been a rough week.

As much as you loved your job at the museum, your rather eccentric aunt, the museum's curator, tends to run you ragged with all of the tasks and errands she asks you to do. She's a sweet lady, bless her, but she's very driven, and expects nothing less than the best from the people around her.

So here you are, walking through the rather shady part of a foreign city in the evening, and you're half-certain you were on the outskirts of the local red light district. The soft thumping bass of the nearby nightclub beat in time with the throbbing of your aching forehead. You had half a mind to stop by and down a few drinks, but you'd like to think that you had some form of professionalism in you, and refused to turn up to your meeting with the antiques collector half-drunk, so you pressed on.

You were so determined to make it there on time, in fact, that you didn't hear the person sneaking up behind you until he whispered, "You're mine."

Now, when a person travels as often as you do, creepy strangers were among the hazards that you are very familiar with, along with some other unusual perils. So, one learns to take precautions for damn near everything.  Like taking self-defense lessons. In the split second that he finished the last syllable, you've already ducked, narrowly missing getting knocked out by a baseball bat, and swept your leg in a wide arc, tripping up your assailant and loosening their grip on their baseball bat, which clanked and rolled away from the immediate grasp of either of you.

Hastily getting in a low stance, you faced the person in anticipation of their attempt to tackle you, letting you grab their wrists to restrain them, and allowing you to get a good look at them. He looked to be in his twenties, and he had a scar going across the width of his face, disappearing under what you could only call an emo fringe. Certainly didn't seem like the type to go around hitting random people in the street.

"What the hell man?" you angrily growled, straining against his attempts to get out of your grasp. "Can't someone walk on the street without getting an aluminum bat to the head?"

He said nothing, opting to stop struggling against your firm grasp to bite you. As he opened his mouth, you saw two pairs of sharp, hooked canines, which bode nothing good, if the simultaneous color change of his sclera from white to black were any indication. You took this as your cue to shove him back with all of your strength, sending him sprawling back down on the ground with an angry hiss.

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes.

Deciding not to take your chances any further, you decided now's a good time as ever to get the heck out of dodge while he's still slightly dazed, sprinting as fast as you can in the other direction, ducking and weaving through narrow alleyways and busy streets, angry drivers honking their horns at you.

When you're sure that you've lost whatever pursuer you might have had, you took a moment to stop and catch your breath. Well, at least you can't say the day hasn't been eventful. You're sure Uncle Indy will enjoy this story a lot.

\--

Composure slightly ruffled, you looked around and surveyed your surroundings. You or anyone you knew weren't from this city, or anywhere near it for that matter, and you didn't have the faintest idea where your mad dash took you to. Simply put, you were lost. You angrily ran a hand through your hair, swallowed your pride, and headed to the nearest establishment to ask for directions.

Said establishment happened to be a swanky-looking jazz lounge, filled with equally swanky-looking customers. It made your working-class self feel more uneasy than usual. As you were looking around for a waiter or maître d' to ask for directions, you bumped into a tall man wearing shades. Indoors. Damn bourgeoisie folks. Mumbling a half-hearted apology, you tried to keep walking, but he must have noticed your utterly frazzled look because he stopped you.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Mr. Tall, Dark, and Shady inquired, the thick cloying scent of his perfume irritating your nostrils and aggravating your headache. It smelled like sulfur. And if there's anything your Uncle Indy taught you, its to not trust fancy-looking strangers who smell like sulfur.

At this point, your headache has evolved into a full-blown migraine, and you feel like if any more interruptions on your way by sketchy strangers, you were going to blow a gasket. So you did you best to smile, though you imagined it looked like a grimace, told him you were fine, just looking for the bathroom, and wretched your hand free from his grip.

But, in a moment straight out of a sitcom, when you moved to leave, you bumped into a waiter holding a trayful of wine glasses, which promptly went soaring through the air and onto the sunglasses-wearing man.

What happened next was a blur, but you half remember falling splat on the floor, only to be roughly picked up by some burly men, possibly the establishment's guards. A man you assumed to be the manager frantically came upon the scene, shouting obscenities at you as you were being carried away while apologizing profusely to the wine-soaked man. The guards brought you outside, and for a moment you wondered why you felt weightless all of a sudden before you felt the hard concrete under your butt.

Huh. You were thrown out. Well, whatever. You didn't like it there anyway.

When you moved to pick yourself and the shattered pieces of your self-esteem off the ground, a nicely-dressed person came up to you and offered you a hand up.

"Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" They asked, voice full of concern.

Taking the hand, you stood up and replied "Yeah. Nothing broken but my pride."

They chuckled and stood by as you dusted yourself off.

"Hey, you don't happen to know where the Braying Donkey is, do you? I have to meet someone there," you asked.

They gave a quick nod and rummaged through their belongings. "I have a brochure here with me. I was thinking of visiting it, but I think I've drank enough for a long while," they said, handing you the flyer.

You took it, thanked them profusely, and set off. What a kind soul. As they turned to enter the jazz lounge, you called after them.

"Hey, there's a weird guy in there. I think he's a vampire or something. Be careful."

They laughed at that, and waved you goodbye. You waved back, going on your way to the Braying Donkey.

\--

By the time you reached The Braying Donkey, you all but stumbled into the doorway and collapsed on a seat. Despite your misadventures, you managed to make it half an hour early before your meeting with the antiques collector. You leaned your arms on the table, cradling your poor head in your hands.

A beer was slid under you, and a stocky, slightly greasy-looking man slid into the seat opposite yours.

Oh great. Please let this not be another interloper. You just want to do your job, get on the plane, go back home, drown yourself in ice cream, and go to bed. So you looked up to them, and told them, with all the patience you could muster, "Sorry, I'm kind of waiting for someone. I have a business-related meeting here."

The man smiled back magnanimously, and you almost wanted to deck him in the face for how irritatingly cheerful he was being. "Oh, I'm their representative. You looked really tired, so I thought I might buy you a drink to perk you up," he replied in a thick German accent.

In your exhausted, migraine-addled mind, you just wanted to finish the day as fast as possible already, so you didn't think to question this claim. "Thanks, but I don't drink on the job. Forgive me for being curt, but can I please just pick up the papers?"

The man nodded. "Sure thing! I have them in my trunk. They're quite a lot, so if it's not too much trouble, could you help me?"

You followed him outside to his car placed in a forlorn corner of the parking lot, eager to just get this over with. He opened his trunk, displaying the utter lack of content inside. You had a split second to think 'Hey, I think I've been had,' before you were unceremoniously shoved into the trunk, which closed over your head. Soon after, you felt the car throttling and moving swiftly along the road, with you jostling uncomfortably in your dark, not-so-comfy trunk-seat. You angrily huffed to yourself.

A couple of years ago, your Uncle Indy told you about the time he woke up in the trunk of a car during one of his many strange excursions. He was able to get himself out with his belt buckle, a piece of string, and a piece of chewing gum in under 10 minutes, relying only on touch, and promptly taught you the method, as was his custom.

In a short while, you were able to jerry-rig a trunk latch, and with all the grace of a broken log, discreetly rolled out of your automobile prison at a stop sign, and darted into a nearby alleyway before your captor could cotton on to your little escape attempt.

After another round of weaving through the city and aggravating motorists with your evasive maneuvers, you collapsed on the sidewalk by the feet of a man holding a briefcase, who gave you a peculiar look. You looked up at the man, some attempt at an explanation for your disheveled state on your tongue, when you realized that this man was who you were supposed to meet up with.

"Mr. Lee! H-hello!" You stammered, quickly standing up and dusting yourself off as best as you could.

Mr. Lee cleared his throat and offered your hand to shake, which you sheepishly returned.

"Um, forgive me for asking you to meet up in such an unorthodox location. My office is under renovation and the bar is the closest public area. I, uh, hope I didn't cause you too much trouble."

There was a long stretch of uncomfortable silence between you, before you replied, just a smidge too loudly, "Oh no, Mr. Lee! It was no trouble. No trouble at all."

\--

 

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me if the character seems Sue-y. If it's any consolation, the reason why the Rire part of the fic didn't involve a confrontation is because the protagonist cannot hope to outsmart Rire or take him on in a fight. They'd easily lose to Akira too, so he's absent from the fic so the plot won't end at the Sano part.
> 
> Uncle Indy is, well, Indiana Jones. The thought of him being the protag's uncle amused me. Sorry if I made him OOC; I'm not all that familiar with the films besides The Last Crusade.
> 
> The protag really did mistake Rire for a vampire, and the person they met is the protagonist of the game.
> 
> I imagine the protag actually goes to the police to report the car, but Strade changed his plate number. Being a foreigner probably didn't help either.


End file.
